Read Song of Everlasting Sorrow Online
Authors: Wang Anyi
Song of Everlasting Sorrow (49 page)
Jiang Lili’s visits also made Kang Mingxun uncomfortable. The first time he saw her she was wearing a blue khaki uniform and a pair of shabby pigskin shoes—like those worn by high school students—under a pair of baggy pants. He would have sworn that she had come from the police department to check their residence permits. He was even more surprised when she opened her mouth—half the words that tumbled out were political phrases lifted straight from the newspaper. He had heard Wang Qiyao mention Jiang Lili and knew about her family background, but the woman before him did not conform to the description at all; he couldn’t figure out which side of her was real and which was merely a show. The way she looked at him was also intimidating. Since she usually came by in the evenings and on Sundays, he tried to avoid her by staying away at those times. This also resulted in his having less time with Wang Qiyao. Nevertheless, the infrequency of his visits did not really affect their relationship, which, like themselves, had simply settled.
And so time gradually slipped by. Had it not been for their daughter, who was growing up, they would never even have noticed the years slipping by. In addition to giving injections, Wang Qiyao now took on occasional side jobs knitting sweaters for the neighborhood factory. Only once did she tap into the gold bars that were still stowed away in her chest drawer, and that was when her daughter had the measles. She had asked Kang Mingxun to exchange one gold bar for cash, but by the time the money arrived, she found she no longer needed it, due to an unexpected order for sweaters. Working day and night to finish the order on time and pay for her daughter’s medicine and treatment, she nearly collapsed, but the idea that she had left the money from the gold bar intact was an added source of comfort. Ever since she had realized that her chances for marriage were bleak, those gold bars were the only thing that gave her a true sense of security.
Deep in the night she would often think of Director Li, but, try as she might, she could no longer picture him. Parts of his face—his eyes and his nose—remained distinct in her mind, but she simply could not put the pieces together. It was as if her mental image of him had been shattered along with his body in that plane crash. The nights she had shared with him had also grown hazy—even her first time, when she had suffered such pain, was obscured by the repetitive lovemaking that came later. When she thought about the last time she saw Director Li and how they had said good-bye, it felt like a nightmare, now long buried beneath the reality that had taken its place. Her later experiences were like layers upon layers of bricks that had been built up over the years, forming a wall that sealed her off from the past. She knew the past was still there but no longer felt it. The only thing left that she could see, that she could touch, was the mahogany box with its Spanish-style floral carvings. That was the only thing that set her mind at ease. Wang Qiyao couldn’t help but think back in sadness that her relationship with Director Li was probably the closest thing to a real marriage she would ever know. It had not been a formal marriage, nor was it an “eternal love,” but at least emotion had been answered with real emotion.
Time ticked by in slow and meticulous detail. Living under the rooftops of Shanghai, one needed to be careful and attentive. It was as if one might not survive unless one concentrated one’s whole soul on the most concrete and down-to-earth details. One couldn’t get by simply looking at the big picture—it was the details that mattered. Beneath the meticulous care was a stubborn tenacity: not the kind of tenacity that impels one to brave a storm, but the kind that enables one to get through the long Jiangnan rainy season. Outside the drizzle went on interminably while inside all was damp as mold silently crept along the floor and walls. The small flame used alternately to heat pots of soup or a small caldron of medicinal broth was dry and warm, the only thing holding out against the dampness of the room. But even the flame held fast to the principle of frugality: there were limits to heat and warmth, which need to be used sparingly, broken up and shared out equally among modest people to achieve their modest objectives and live out their modest lives.
The noise of things stirring in the night deep in those winding alleys was the sound of people living out their modest lives. Their steps are smaller than the movement of the second hand on a clock, but with each forward movement they still make a slight squeaking sound; and though they are lighter than a feather, they still leave behind their footprints, which are always moving steadily forward. The sounds of their songs and tears are barely audible, because they keep their emotions pent up inside. It is only when you lift your eyes to the mist enveloping the sky above the
longtang
that you discover their sorrow and their sweetness.
longtang
that you discover their sorrow and their sweetness.
1965 was a good year for the city. Its stability and prosperity provided solid resources and a stage against which people could live out their dreams of having a comfortable life. Currents of happiness and warmth flowed through the city skies, nothing ostentatious, just a simple, healthy urge for enjoyment manifesting itself. With the coming of spring, bright colors once again lit up the street scenes, nurturing a vanity that was entirely wholesome. Although it was concealed, one could still sense the pulsating feeling of being alive flowing through the streets. At night the city lights were far from brilliant, but each one had its place, highlighting the people, places, and things of the city—no light was wasted on spurious glamour. It was as if the entire city had been baptized, regaining an air of normality in the process. That is what the heart of the city was like in 1965, once all the dust had settled.
Mr. Cheng started using his photo studio again and spent his holidays there. When he turned the studio lights back on, his heart felt easy; he was like a wandering son who had finally come home. He began to regain interest in what had always been his specialty—portrait shots. It started when some of the neighborhood beauty salons asked him to take photographs of different hairstyles that they could use as samples to show their customers. His reputation soon spread, and a new wave of beautiful young girls began frequenting his studio. He was forty-three years old—an old man in the eyes of these young models. A grave and conservative man, Mr. Cheng was not one to fall in love easily—such romantic feelings as he had harbored had mostly been thwarted by a woman named Wang Qiyao, and there was not an ounce of romance left in his heart. In his eyes, those beautiful young models might as well have been made of wood or clay; for Mr. Cheng, their sole value was as objects of admiration.
It was hard to say if this was owing to his age and experience or to the living hell Wang Qiyao had put him through—but he found himself even more capable when it came to capturing the true beauty of each model. Consequently, he was often able to find beauty in the mundane and so produced exceptional results. He was not one to accept assignments lightly, but once he did, he poured all his effort into producing the most exquisite images. Every photo that came out of his studio was a masterpiece. Each night he would sit alone in his darkroom, where the only source of light was the glow of a single red lamp—everything else was swallowed up by the darkness, himself included. The only things that really existed in this world were the stunning images that emerged from the fixer solution; but these were like cicada shells, empty on the inside. He would focus his energy on finding the most balanced relationship between darkness and light in each composition, and as he completed each task he would heave a soft sigh of relief. Ignoring the cup of coffee, now cold, that he had meant to drink, he would switch off the red lamp, feeling his way out of the darkroom into his bedroom. After climbing into bed, he would light a cigar—his latest indulgence, a gift bestowed on him by the prosperity of 1965. The smoke from the cigar worked like a sedative and before long Mr. Cheng would be asleep.
This was the year that things seemed to be getting back on the right track. The unproductive upheavals of the intervening years seemed to have passed, evaporating like a cloud of mist; it was as if the previous years had been a dream. Because of all the buildings, the Shanghai sky was always divided up into narrow slits through which light and rain would seep in. The Shanghai streets were bustling like always. People who did not live there would probably have noticed signs that the city had aged: the layers of ivy climbing the gables to bathe in the sunlight, the flow of the Suzhou River growing more sluggish as the water became choked with accumulated garbage, even the sliver of sky that hovered over the city growing darker as a result of the carbon dioxide being constantly spewed into the air. Every spring the new leaves on the plane trees seemed to be less shiny and healthy than the previous year. However, the city’s inhabitants had no way of seeing this, because they too were aging along with their environment. They were surrounded by these things whenever they had their eyes open . . . and whenever they had them closed.
On a few occasions Mr. Cheng completely lost track of time while working in his darkroom. Time seemed to have concealed itself in the stillness of the night, and yet the stillness of the night is when time is most active. It wasn’t until he heard the sound of the milk truck making its morning delivery in the back alley that Mr. Cheng snapped out of it and realized that he had spent the whole night working. He did not feel in the least bit exhausted. After developing the last photograph, he pulled open the heavy drapes covering the window in the darkroom and saw the dawn creeping up over the Huangpu River—this was a scene that had always been dear to him, but it was something he had nearly forgotten. He choked up a bit as he thought about how long it had been since he had laid his eyes on this familiar vista, knowing full well that it had always been there, waiting for him to come back to it. At that moment a flock of pigeons suddenly took to the air from the small crevices on the side of the building on which they were perched.
Is this the same flock of pigeons from years ago? Have they too been waiting for me?
he wondered.
Is this the same flock of pigeons from years ago? Have they too been waiting for me?
he wondered.
Over time Mr. Cheng lost touch with most of his friends. He even stopped keeping in contact with Wang Qiyao and Jiang Lili. Living in those penthouse apartments of Shanghai were a lot of reclusive men like Mr. Cheng. The details of their daily lives were a mystery—their pasts, an even greater mystery. They always moved about alone. Their apartments were like giant shells: who knows what kind of exotic creatures inhabited them. 1965 was a good year for those individuals who hid in their shells. That was a time when society was relatively free, even though many things were secretly playing out beyond the eyes of man. Only the pigeons that flew overhead knew.
Then came one night when Mr. Cheng couldn’t help being irritated by the ringing of the doorbell. He had no photo shoots scheduled; who dared to show up unannounced, he wondered. As he made his way to the door, he thought about how he should turn them away. Though a bit eccentric, Mr. Cheng was a mild-mannered man and quite refined by nature. But he immediately realized upon opening the door that he didn’t need to turn anybody away—standing at his door was Wang Qiyao. He never dreamed that Wang Qiyao would show up at his apartment. In fact, he had not thought about her for a long time. He was taken completely off guard, but was also quite pleased and very calm. The storm of emotion that had once consumed him had given way and all that was left were memories of a heart-warming past. He invited Wang Qiyao inside and made her tea. It was only then that he noticed that she was quite worked up about something. She gripped the tea cup tightly in her hand without seeming to realize how hot it was.
“Jiang Lili is dying. . . .” Those were the first words out of her mouth.
Mr. Cheng was taken aback.
“. . . she has a malignant tumor,” she added hastily.
At that time cancer was not yet common and people did not know much about it. In fact, no one back then even used the word “cancer” instead referring to people who had such conditions as having a “malignant tumor.” The thing had a frightening reputation, and although many people had heard of it, no one ever imagined it would strike them or someone close to them. But once it did, it was enough to break one with terror. Jiang Lili had actually been suffering from a liver disease for quite some time, only no one knew it. Because she had always looked pale, was a notoriously picky eater, and had a short temper, no one really noticed when her health started to deteriorate. Even Jiang Lili herself ignored the symptoms at first. Growing up in a well-to-do family, she always enjoyed the best food, which gave her a good constitution and a strong immune system, which over time lessened her sensitivity to illness. She realized that she didn’t have much of an appetite, was easily exhausted, and felt some discomfort around her liver, but it was nothing she couldn’t tolerate and she just wrote her symptoms off as a minor ailment. Then one day she suddenly found that she could not get out of bed; she was too weak even to lift up a piece of paper, and her husband, Old Zhang, carried her off to the hospital on his back.
The diagnosis was swift. They held her for observation over three days, during which time they kept her on an intravenous glucose drip, before Old Zhang was allowed to carry her back home. As Jiang Lili clung to her husband’s back, she could smell the strong scent of Old Zhang’s hair oil and a feeling of warmth filled her heart. She pressed her face against her husband’s neck and wanted to tell him something, but couldn’t find the words. The tenderness she felt was so unusual that she felt it was ominous. All Old Zhang could think of doing was to call in his family from Shandong province so that they could help out. One could not ask for more genuine and generous folks, but for some reason Jiang Lili always felt alienated around them. Filled with sadness and compassion, they would sit outside her bedroom, whispering from time to time. They resembled mourners at a funeral, and the atmosphere in the apartment became stifling. Jiang Lili felt suffocated by this air of bereavement and her tiny bit of tenderness evaporated, as did her will to resist the disease. There she lay, surrounded by a cast of strange faces carrying on in strange rural accents who crept in whenever someone opened the door. Several times she got so annoyed that she broke down and screamed at them, accusing them of trying to hasten her death. Her husband’s family received these outbursts with understanding, taking them simply as the ravings of a sick person going through terrible suffering.
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